When Darkness Falls
by jenron12
Summary: "She's a walking pharmacy, these days; a living, breathing, broken girl, and the word 'victim' might as well be tattooed across her head." This is Gillian's story. It begins at age 19, and ends with Cal. Trigger warning.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** : Hello fellow LtM fans! Because this story is most certainly T-rated, and because the subject matter is not fluffy at all, I wanted to put a big, giant " _trigger warning_ " right here at the beginning. Trust me, it needs one - for at least 2 different reasons. I'll also go ahead and tell you, though, that this story is **not** graphic. I've done my best to keep everything well within Gillian's character, but to also be subtle and respectful about the issues she faces in these chapters. This fic is, basically, a peek into her life long before she met Cal; it centers around one tragic event (and the fallout that comes after), and leads her full circle to The Lightman Group  & to Cal. It's a take on "their" story, but unlike many of the other things I've written in the past, this one is much grittier.

Also, this isn't meant to be nearly as long as my other two in-progress stories - and yes, I promise, they really _are_ still in progress. This fic will be 5 chapters long, and although the trigger warning will apply in each chapter, none of the installments are graphic in an over-the-top-way. (That's a promise too.) As always, thank you all for reading, and I very much hope you enjoy!

-Jennifer

* * *

 **Part I** : _**The Beginning**_

She spends the first twenty-four hours crying, being poked and prodded by strangers, and squinting beneath florescent lights as she tries to remember how to breathe. The next forty-eight bring denial… nightmares… the fear that she'll never be able to recognize herself again, and the sharp, belated sting of the word "victim" surrounding the syllables of her name.

Her stomach clenches.

Her back throbs.

Her muscles ache, and her throat is still sore from screaming – and yet above it all, despite it all, it's the messy mix of fear and shame that hurts the most.

Green eyes, strong arms… the smell of sweat, anger, blood, and greed: each of those things still taunts her from the shadows even now, days later. She's taken seventeen showers and scrubbed her skin until it's almost raw. She barely eats, she doesn't want to sleep, and she's tired of the endless parade of predictable apologies that do nothing but pour salt into her wounds.

" _I'm so sorry, Gillian_ ," they tell her. Friends, family, doctors, neighbors – their words are always the same; always laced with pity, and backlit with gazes that never quite meet hers. So _many_ useless apologies, and not a single one scratches the surface of what she actually wants to hear. Words can't fix this, see? Magic wands don't exist, and no one can save her from the harsh reality that keeps pulling her down, down, down with every breath.

Her body, her life, her free will, her future – all of those things are compromised, now. They exist as 'before' and 'after,' in this disjointed way that makes every emotion seem five times too heavy, and colors each conscious thought with lines of red pain.

She feels invisible. Silenced. Hopeless. She's consumed by the need to regain control, and repulsed by the rage flowing through her veins. And just when she thinks she can't possibly handle any more darkness, there it is: an impulse _**so**_ dark that her blood runs cold, and she cannot pull away. It beckons. It cracks a crooked, yellow-toothed smile and studies her with hypnotic eyes, as it tries so badly to convince her that she's broken. That this is permanent. That she's marked, somehow. Damaged goods.

It passes, though. Eventually. Her heart is racing, she can't quite catch her breath, and panic seeps up from the pit of her stomach as the darkness gradually fades. But then she squints, and she shakes her head, and she tells herself that she's starting to go crazy - that she just needs to _sleep_. So she swallows her pills, buries herself beneath three layers of blankets, and waits for the pain to ease.

This is her life, now.

After three days in hell.

* * *

She sees the therapist on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She misses two weeks of class, promises herself she won't miss a third, and then tries to dive right back into freshman life without making so much as a ripple. She lives on caffeine, can no longer stomach the stench of beer or the weight of a hand on her shoulder, and the bruises on her throat – finger-shaped and sickeningly yellow, now – trigger pity and gasps at every turn.

She has thirteen stitches in her back, from where she landed on a broken bottle, and her right ankle will barely support her weight. She takes scalding hot showers… scrubs her skin raw each morning before sunrise… can't wrap her head around how the rest of the world is still turning, while _her_ world, her life, her everything feels so very, very broken.

The doctors are quick to tell her that healing takes time. That's she'll recover. That she's strong enough to move mountains, brave enough to trust again, and smart enough not to give one man, one night, or one terrible event the power to control her future. And **yes** , she listens. To all of it. She hears the words, and she tries to absorb their good intentions – but in the end? She can't.

Mostly because it all just feels like false hope.

* * *

On the twenty-ninth day, she spots a tall, tanned, blonde man from across the campus, and then starts to hyperventilate almost immediately. It isn't him. It _isn't_ him, and she knows that – but the similarities are so very close that it sends a chill up her spine. His build is identical. The color of his jacket is identical. He's wearing brown boots and faded jeans, and she can practically smell the sweat pouring off him in waves. So she panics. She's surrounded by the midday crowd, staring daggers at a man she's never seen before, and she just… panics. Her stomach lurches. Her heart pounds. Tears fill her eyes, and heat floods her cheekbones, and she longs to find something that will make her feel normal again.

She just wants peace, see?

She wants to rest.

She wants to forget what it felt like to have her body torn apart by a stranger, as her fists clawed and scraped against the dirty, concrete floor. Blood and pain and screams and fear – _oh_ , how badly she wants to forget everything!

It takes a full ten minutes for her breathing to slow. The sun is shining and her bag is upended on the ground. Literature, Biology, Economics, French… heavy, well-worn texts spill onto the grass, and her muscles shout in protest as she cleans up the mess. Her legs want to run, and her arms want to shove, but she just wipes her sweaty palms on her pant legs instead, and wills herself not to cry. And in yet another ten minutes – when she's still rooted to that spot, helpless and hopeless, and utterly alone – she sees it again, off in the distance: that dark, dark shell of an idea that first hit her on day three.

It still beckons. It greedily takes advantage of her weakness, and it sneers as it preys upon all the doubts in her mind. It reaches out with its icy fingers and its tangible shame, and she shudders at the realization that it sees _her_ , too. That it craves her vulnerability. That it hears her screaming from the inside out, and smiles at the raw heat of her pain.

"Gillian?"

She hears her name and instinctively turns on her heel, too shaken to speak and too shocked to fully break away from her demons' tight grasp. A familiar face, a guarded smile, wide blue eyes and the outstretched hand of a very good friend – all of those things are standing right in front of her, and they should be comforting. She _should_ feel safe… but she doesn't.

"Want to grab some coffee?" her friend asks, shrugging as her gaze drops down to where the last bits of finger-shaped bruises still linger on pale skin. "It's cold out here, and I have some time to kill, and… I'm worried about you, Gill. I'm so sorry this happened. Is there anything I can do?"

One hand is buried in her pocket, squeezing the bottle of pills hidden inside. She takes tiny blue ones for the pain, giant white ones for anxiety, and ugly pink capsules to help her sleep. She's a walking pharmacy, these days; a living, breathing, broken girl, and the word 'victim' might as well be tattooed across her head. She has stitches in her back, swelling in her ankle, two cracked ribs… scars, and scrapes, and baggage, and fear. And just as she starts to answer – just as she starts to tell her friend that she's worried too, and coffee is as good a place to start as anything else – those icy fingers wrap around her wrist and squeeze.

 **Hard**.

So she shakes her head and blinks back freshly formed tears, as the lie bubbles up from her gut and lands at her feet with a heavy, hissing thud. "I'm fine," she mutters quietly.

And just like that, the scoreboard tilts: Darkness one, Gillian zero. Rest assured, she isn't fine at all.

* * *

It's Tuesday.

And she _hates_ Tuesdays.

Thursdays aren't quite as bad, because Dr. Taylor usually takes pity on her and cuts the sessions early – but Tuesdays? Are awful. Really, truly, mind-numbingly awful. He asks the same questions forty-six different ways, fills the hour with polite-yet-phony nods of encouragement, and squints so hard that she half expects his face to implode. He sees her as a specimen. A case number. A victim. 'Placation' is his favorite strategy. He uses the words "sexual assault" in a way that somehow demeans all of her feelings, and winds up locking her into stubborn silence just for spite. Or in other words…

He's being paid to listen, but he doesn't actually seem to _hear_ her at all.

There are thirty-four bland, beige tiles on his ceiling… thirteen pictures on his shelves… eight pens perfectly aligned in an ugly plastic cup… and it takes five tries before she finally tells him that her body hurts less, and her mind hurts more, and that she still can't sleep with the lights off. That she barely eats. That she's constantly cold, hot, angry, lonely, too wired to rest and too tired to try.

Which catches him completely off guard.

So he pauses. He shifts in his seat. He shuffles his papers, and stares at the top of her head, and then he nods – slowly, gently, up and down and up and down, as if he could ever pretend to understand how she feels. And for whatever she thinks he might actually _say_ in response, all she gets is this:

"These things take time."

…which pretty much knocks the wind right out of her. It's an empty statement, made by an empty man, meant to deliver empty promises to heal her empty heart, and it backfires. Big time.

She follows all the rules, you know? Even now. Even here. She goes to every appointment; listens to every piece of advice. She consents to exams, and she takes her medication like a good little guinea pig, and she doesn't tell the entire world to go straight to hell. She is strong. And yet, on the inside? She's breaking apart piece by piece, brick by brick, day by day.

"You need to rest, Gillian," he tells her. "You can't heal if you don't rest. And you can't move forward from this if you don't heal. And if you don't heal…"

Blah.

Blah.

Blah.

His words ricochet off her skin and bounce around the room in random, racing arcs until she can tolerate no more. The man cannot even manage to **say** 'rape,' let alone help her come to terms with **having been** raped, _let alone_ understand how terribly insulting it feels to have the single most violent experience of her entire life bubble wrapped with pretense and chased with bi-weekly doses of bad advice. _Rest. Heal. Move forward_. How pathetic. He's supposed to be the expert, right? She's a nineteen-year-old business student who has never so much as read a psychology textbook, let alone pretended to be a shrink, and yet… even now, even here, even as broken and trapped and hopeless as she feels…she knows this: helping people takes heart. It takes getting outside of your comfort zone and stepping down into the muck to help pull someone else out. It takes sweat and time, compassion and care. Otherwise it's all just a mass of lies.

Dr. Taylor, however, is low on heart. He's two dimensional. He is perfectly happy being stuck at the center of his tiny, little comfort zone – wearing his silk ties, and taking immaculate notes, and squinting at her from high atop his muck-free perch. He's a liar. Hollow and empty. He's unable to give her the help she so desperately needs, and too oblivious to hear her silent cries.

She sits mutely while he talks, and talks, and talks – not _to_ her, mind you, but _at_ her… and yes, there's a difference.

She sees it.

She _feels_ it.

Two months is her limit, and she cannot stand it anymore.

There are thirty-four bland, beige tiles on his ceiling. Thirteen pictures are propped upon his shelves, eight pens are perfectly aligned in an ugly plastic cup, and it takes merely three more seconds – at most – before she stands, cuts him off mid-sentence, and tells him to go straight to hell.

* * *

To be continued

(A/N: Rest assured, Cal is in this story. I promise. It's just not quite time for him yet.)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** : Trigger warning ahead, guys. Trust me, this chapter is a tough one. Sometimes things have to fall apart before they can fall into place... but they _will_ fall into place. Trust me on that, too. :) As always, thanks for reading  & for the sweet reviews, and I hope you'll continue to stick with me on this one until the end.

* * *

 **Part II** : _**Breaking Apart At the Seams**_

* * *

Time passes.

Seasons change.

She takes one job at a restaurant and a second at a book store, and she tries to plug the holes in her life with twelve-hour shifts and persistent denial. She's down to two pills a day – pink for sleeping, white for anxiety – and if her mother doesn't stop nagging about everything under the sun, she will seriously scream.

" _Are you taking your meds, Gilly? Are you sleeping, Gilly? You're losing too much weight, Gilly, you have to keep up your strength. Your face is too pale – get out in the sunshine and enjoy the warm air! Did you call that new doctor yet, dear? Because you should. You really, really should. I told his office you would call them to confirm, and they went out of their way to squeeze you in on short notice, so please. Call. Today, alright? Call them today. It'll be good for you, Gilly, you'll see. You need to make a fresh start. You need to find closure. You need, you need, you need…"_

She's twenty years old, and her mother still calls her Gilly. She sleeps in fits and starts, and she always uses a nightlight. She triple-checks every window and every door lock… looks behind every curtain and peeks beneath her bed… and it's exhausting. It's humiliating. And yet she can't seem to make herself stop.

Gilly. Heh. Oh, how she hates that stupid nickname.

A lifetime ago, 'Gilly' was the perfect child – one who smiled on command and wore ringlets in her hair. She was soft-spoken and ever-cheerful, kind and obliging and selfless to a fault. She was a tiny, demure princess living in a picture-perfect world, and her picture-perfect family was well-versed at hiding flaws. But she's Gillian now – not Gilly. And Gillian _isn't_ a child. She isn't perfect, and she certainly isn't a princess. In fact, 'Gillian' hasn't had a real smile in months. Her hair is bottle blonde and poker straight, hidden beneath an old ball cap and all but ignored. She's a workaholic; skin and bones. She has nightmares and scars, self-doubt and self-loathing… and the thought of spending the rest of her life stuck in so much quicksand makes her wonder if she wants to live at all.

Some days she doesn't.

Some days, it hurts to even try.

And some days it feels like the darkness just might swallow her whole.

* * *

It's the second semester of her sophomore year, and the pressure of having two jobs and twenty-one course hours is taking its toll. She's exhausted. She drinks countless cups of coffee and somehow manages to keep a GPA that makes her family oh-so proud, but it comes at a steep price: full blown apathy. Which scares the living hell right out of her.

Anger is familiar. Depression fits her like a glove. Shame, anxiety, fear, disgust… those emotions feel like old friends. She knows them well. They keep her company during long shifts at the restaurant, when middle-aged men like to flirt with the shy, blonde waif. They hold her hand during morning hours at the book store, when coffee and printed pages are the only companionship she seeks. They form the imperfect circle of her comfort zone and are too stubborn to leave.

Apathy, though, is a different animal altogether – one that catches her completely by surprise, and then spends a full month making itself right at home. It takes no prisoners. It ruins nearly all of her friendships, steals another five pounds from her too-thin frame, and leads her straight to the registrar's office one rainy April morning, where she withdraws from school without so much as a _pause_.

She feels nothing.

Fears nothing.

Wants nothing, anymore.

There are too many pill bottles on her nightstand, and sometimes she wonders what would happen if she just stopped counting; if she "accidentally" took one too many of the white ones, or five too many of the ugly pink capsules. Would anyone care, or would apathy rain down upon them, too? Would her mother cry? Would she be missed? Would they hate her in death as much as she sometimes hates herself in life? She has too many questions and too few answers, and it's killing her an inch at a time.

So she waits.

She bides her time.

She takes another hot shower, traces a fingertip over the scars on her back, and empties one of the bottles into her palm.

 _Thud, thud, thud_. Her heartbeat is steady and even, and she stares down at her hand as if it belongs to someone else. As if the moment isn't real. As if it's perfectly normal to be dancing with the devil in such a terrible, finite, dangerous way. And then somehow, it all just… cracks.

She blinks.

She breathes.

Apathy thaws into hot, searing pain, and her entire body is soon racked with rough sobs. She's confused, and she's terrified, and she's so very angry with herself for not being able to move past this, yet. For being weak. For a thousand things that aren't her fault, and thousand more that probably are.

But she doesn't swallow a single pill.

* * *

" _It's just a phase, Gilly. You'll see. You'll take the summer off, get your head straight, and then you'll start to miss it again. You did the same thing when you were seven years old – remember, sweetheart? You took those ballet classes and were so incredibly clumsy that you pirouetted right into the wall and broke your wrist. And_ oh _, you cried for days. Said you were too humiliated to ever even touch a leotard again, much less wear one, and you refused to go back. But three weeks later, there you were: rehearsing for the winter recital with a lopsided grin. You're my stubborn girl, Gilly, and you always have been… but you're certainly no quitter."_

Her mother phones twice a day, now. She has food delivered from every restaurant in the tri-county area, and tries to bypass small talk with ice cream and pie. She makes unannounced visits. Brings gifts. She buys fifteen different cookbooks, learns to bake her way through half of them, and then fills every nook and cranny of the tiny apartment with enough sugary, chocolate-laden desserts to kill an ox. On and on and on it goes. For weeks. But then again… when one's daughter falls to a dangerously low weight, needs double doses of antidepressants just to get through the day, and then drops out of college without telling a soul, maternal panic is bound to ensue.

Advertising: that was her major. She had a double minor in economics and French, a partial scholarship, dozens of friends, and a set of long-term goals. And then she lost them. She lost everything, really. Including herself.

"It's not a phase, mom," she promises – each and every time they speak, until the words sear themselves upon her tongue and then mock her with the bitter taste of their persistence. Her mother whines and nags, guilts and curses, and always reminds her how crazy it is to throw away the future, just because she can't move past the memory of one terrible night.

" _Don't be stupid, Gillian."_

" _You're better than this, Gillian."_

" _You'll_ regret _this someday, Gillian."_

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

And those admonitions do little more than leave behind fresh scars.

Day in and day out, she wishes things were different; that she hadn't been in the wrong place at the wrong time all those months ago, and that she could still recognize her own reflection. But wishes aren't reality, and reality is quite a heavy burden to bear – and she's just **done** , you know? She's _done_. She's done with classes, done with tests… done walking past that godawful parking garage three times a day and hearing the echo of her own screams.

She finds a new apartment and takes on a third job. She tries to stay too busy to miss her old life, and her old friends, and all the parts of herself she lost that night, at the hands of someone else's greed. And for a little while, it works.

…until it doesn't.

By the end of summer, she finds herself counting pills again; crying and panicking, and drowning in pain. And then on a whim one night – when the loneliness finally overtakes her, and the scenes from her nightmares feel entirely too real – she goes too far. The darkness wins. She swallows six of the pink ones, then panics and shoves her toothbrush down her throat until she vomits so hard, for so long, that she can barely sit upright by morning.

It's a wake-up call. A terrible, horrible wake-up call.

And it probably saves her life.

* * *

She meets therapist number two on a rainy Monday morning, after she runs out of ways to tell her mother 'no.' His office is cramped, his handshake is weak, and his tie is covered in palm trees. He spends too much time making small talk, pours himself a cup of coffee without offering one to her, and calls her by the wrong name at least twice.

She never sees him again.

Instead, she tells herself that she's tough enough to handle her own problems, and that she doesn't need anyone's help. That she's getting better. That the fog is starting to lift, and that she'll be perfectly fine.

She reads self-help books, tries yoga, quits the third job, and joins a gym. She's trying. She's really _, really_ trying. But she still wakes up in a cold sweat at least three times a week, and she still needs pills to help her sleep. The depression? The anxiety? The shame she feels? They follow her everywhere. They're constant. Sometimes it feels like she's fallen so far past rock bottom that she'll never see daylight again. She sells books by day, and she waits tables at night, and **yes** , she _does_ smile. She pretends. She's numb on the outside but screaming on the inside, and no one can tell that she's falling apart.

Two weeks after her disastrous appointment with Dr. Palm Tree, she drops a plate on her kitchen floor. It shatters into a million pieces, makes a noise loud enough to wake the dead, and leaves her with a bloody thumb – and yet she doesn't react at all _._ Instead, she just… she just… _stands_ there, looking down at her hand with a frown, and trying to remember where she keeps the dustpan.

She kneels.

Gathers the pieces.

She sweeps tiny shards into a haphazard pile, and lifts the biggest chunks into her palm… and that's when it happens: her epiphany. Somehow, someway – by fate, or chance, or maybe just pure, dumb luck – she spies her reflection in biggest piece. Pale skin, sunken eyes, broken spirit, lost girl. The sight scares her almost as badly as those six pills did, and she slides onto the tile with a defeated sigh, as hot tears spill down her cheeks.

She's a terrible liar, see?

She can't handle this herself. She _isn't_ fine, and she _isn't_ getting better… and she's ready to admit that she needs help.

* * *

Melissa Collins is diminutive lady, with bright blue eyes and a warm smile. She has brown hair and glasses, displays her son's artwork right next to her (many) diplomas, and has this unspoken, intuitive way about her that the first two therapists did not. She's kind. She's neither pretentious nor pushy… she doesn't seem to mind if the conversation comes in fits and starts… and she isn't afraid to use the word 'rape.' All of which counts for at least five hundred steps in the right direction.

"None of this is your fault," Dr. Collins tells her, at the end of their first hour. " _None_ of it. Not the rape, not the depression – not any of it. What happened to you is a terrible thing, but it doesn't define you. **You** define you, Gillian. The future isn't written in stone."

There are no apologies. Placation isn't welcome here, and words are neither empty nor spoken without thought. This doctor has no problem keeping eye contact, or being honest, or making her feel that there _is_ hope. That she _will_ get better. That with a little help, she can find a way to mend the cracks and fill the voids, and listen to her heart again, rather than to the insecurities in her head. It's progress. More progress than she expected to see in a month, let alone a single day.

She shakes the doctor's hand, gathers her things, and steps out into the warm September air feeling like some of the weight has been lifted from her shoulders. Then she smiles. And for the first time in ages, it doesn't feel like a lie.

* * *

To be continued...

 **A/N** : I haven't forgotten about Cal. Promise. Just a heads-up, though... my next update will be to "Take the Long Way Home," because the muse is threatening to hurt me if I don't pay attention to that one soon. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** : Trigger warning ahead, though this chapter isn't as graphic as the previous two. And thank you all for the kind words about this story, truly. This one is dear to my heart.

* * *

 **Part III** : _**Healing**_

They meet on Wednesday afternoons and Friday mornings, when she has a few hours of free time between jobs. And by some small miracle, she doesn't dread any of the sessions – ever. She feels safe there, and she isn't the least bit shy about discussing all the dreams she used to have for her life, before everything changed. Sometimes she cries. Sometimes the appointments feel eight hours long, and sometimes they seem to pass in mere seconds… and yes, the whole process is grueling. But it works. It's what she needs. And it helps, beyond measure.

Dr. Collins has two sons. Ethan, the budding artist, is seven years old and has his mother's trusting eyes. Simon, the musician, is thirteen and plays bass. And she knows these things because she _asked_ ; because their pictures are on the desk, smiling at her twice a week and helping her feel connected to something for the first time in nearly a year.

This doctor is a mother. She has a family. She has a busy life, is probably pulled in a dozen different directions every single day, and yet there she sits. Listening. Caring. Treating her patients like human beings, rather than case numbers.

 _This_ doctor has an office with cheerful yellow walls. She keeps tissues on the side table, has polka dots on her coffee mugs, and she doesn't practice placation at all. She doesn't use gimmicks. She doesn't keep one eye on the clock and the other on her notepad, and she is – apparently – a very rare breed in a field that is supposed to be based in compassion.

 _This_ doctor is the right fit.

Finally.

* * *

By late October, the signs of change are everywhere: in the leaves, in the sunset, in the chill of the breeze, and in the pace of the city. People look genuinely happy. They smile. They laugh. They sip decadent coffees and take pictures beneath colorful trees. They immerse themselves in football games and fall traditions, and they embrace life with open arms. It's as if they all know exactly what they want, and exactly where they're going – and she wants that same sense of security, too. Truly. She wants…

"Can we talk about the pills, Gillian?"

She wants to _heal_.

"Can you help me understand what happened that night, and why you thought those pills were the only answer?"

She wants to finally let go of the darkness, and then learn how to listen to her heart again, rather than be controlled by the demons in her past.

Yellow walls, smiling faces, autumn sunsets, and crimson leaves… those are the things she's noticing more and more now. The positives. The goodness that surrounds her, rather than only sorrow or pain. Six pills in her palm, six pills down her throat, six reasons to remember that she is choosing to fight. That she wants to live. That even though she came a hairsbreadth away from reaching the end of her rope, she's still holding on strong.

She has hope, now.

 _Hope_.

Not apathy.

And she doesn't want to hide from the truth anymore.

* * *

Suicide.

The word sounds so foreign, at first.

She hears it. She repeats it. She knows that it fits her situation perfectly, and that it's crazy to be unnerved by seven small, innocent letters. But still, it feels too… tight. It constricts. It clumps her into a predefined box, with a predefined set of rules, and slaps a predefined stereotype atop her messy, blonde head. ' _This girl is crazy_ ,' it practically shouts. ' _Lock up the pills and don't let her out of your sight, because she'll probably try it again someday. She's weak. She's broken._ _She's another sad tragedy just waiting to happen_.'

It makes her feel like a failure, even now.

She cries as she recounts the story. She talks about how lonely she felt beforehand, how terrified she felt afterwards, and how the bile and shame burned the back of her throat as she vomited into the toilet. And she talks about her family, too. About apathy. About her stupid GPA and her failed friendships… about cookbooks, and phone calls, and all the times she let everyone down. Her hands shake. Her voice cracks. Panic creeps up the back of her neck and gooseflesh blooms along her arms, as she watches a cluster of terrible words rain down upon the floor.

Rape.

Suicide.

Depression.

Rage.

Hopelessness.

Disgust.

"I just needed it to stop," she explains. "I felt like I couldn't breathe most days – like no one could see the real me anymore, and no one could see that I was falling apart. I didn't want to live like that, and I just… I just needed it to _stop_."

Tick… tick… tick. An antique clock keeps time in the corner, and its staccato beat slices through the otherwise silent air. She's instinctively bracing for another apology; a rubber-stamped cliché designed to tell her that everything will be okay, now. She's a cynic these days. She has trust issues. She's not completely comfortable with herself yet, let alone with sharing such an awful set of truths with someone else.

She wipes her eyes, runs a shaky hand through her hair – and then it's there, like magic: a reply that sends shockwaves to her self-imposed walls, and laughs in the face of cynicism and shame.

"I'm proud of you, Gillian," Dr. Collins tells her. Which is so far removed from everything she's heard in the last year, that she doesn't quite know how to react. She feels…

"You're a very strong person. Everything you just told me, and everything that I know you've been through since the night you were attacked – all of it proves that you don't take the easy way out. You're here now, doing the work and facing your fears, and letting yourself be vulnerable. Why? Because it's _your_ life, and it's _your_ future, and you're determined to live it on _your_ terms. And I'm so very, very proud of you."

…she feels validated. She feels heard. She isn't a victim, and she isn't a case number. She isn't a guinea pig, and she isn't a broken, lost girl, hiding her fear behind a handful of pills – not anymore.

She's Gillian, now.

And piece by piece, she's starting to recognize herself again.

* * *

Thanksgiving comes on a blustery Thursday, and the dark grey sky is a perfect match for her brand new sweater. She wears a silver pendant, navy shoes, and a smile that sits just off-kilter enough to make her nerves kick into overdrive. Personal experience tells her that this particular holiday is built around a thousand different pretenses, and she can all but feel the weight of a dozen pairs of eyes studying her from head to toe.

None of this is easy.

None of this is normal, yet.

None of this looks like the picturesque, mass-marketed idea of what a traditional holiday should be, and she can't quite tell if it's always been like that… or if it's like that _this_ year, in _these_ circumstances, because of her. Because of what happened _to_ her. She can't quite tell where she fits.

The rape is, unfortunately, common knowledge. Her cousins know. Her aunt sat with her in the hospital room, and held her after the exam. Her uncle still looks sideways at every blonde male within the tri-state area, and her father tries like hell to smother his own anger with whatever liquor is closest at hand. Her mother specializes in worry, and her grandfather tries to cut the tension with inappropriate jokes… and it's a mess. It's flawed and fragile, like a safety net made of sand.

The fallout from the rape, however, is _not_ common knowledge – and she certainly doesn't intend to discuss any of it now, here, between bites of potatoes and pie.

She makes it all the way through dinner, past her father's third cocktail and her uncle's second cigar. She hugs her aunt, plays cards with her cousins, and eats more food in a single sitting than she's managed to eat in the last ten days combined. She laughs at everyone's jokes, and she smiles often enough that her cheeks start to ache. And when someone stupidly asks if she's involved with any of the 'cute boys from school,' she doesn't silently wish that the ground would open up and swallow her.

She's doing fine, see? No anxiety attacks, no panic, no shame, and no fear.

She's absolutely fine.

…until she isn't.

By nightfall, her father is on his fifth cocktail and can barely stand upright without help. Conversation begins to stall. Her mother packs leftovers into various containers, while the rest of the family stumbles through awkward goodbyes – and no one wants to state the obvious truth, which is that he's _drunk_. That he's embarrassing. That he needs to stop talking before he says something he'll really regret, and that true courage doesn't come in liquid form.

Pretense, though. It hovers through their perfectly-decorated home like a cloud, and it paints the entire scene with a color she knows all-too well, but cannot pinpoint by name. Everything is uncomfortable, now. Too many jokes, too much alcohol, too much tension, too much time – she has overstayed her welcome, and she just wants to go. She wants to drive back to her tiny little apartment, in her tiny little car, and fall asleep by the light of her tiny little television sometime before dawn.

She pauses at the front door just long enough to find her keys. Her coat is draped over one arm, a week's worth of leftovers is balanced in the other. And then just as she starts to step outside, her father's vodka-fueled tangent quickly turns everything on its ear. He drains the final few drops of liquor from his glass, waits until the rest of the room falls silent, and says…

"All that potential, Gilly. All that intelligence. You just wasted it all, didn't you? You're still living in the past, and now you're letting all that fear turn you into a failure."

* * *

It's three weeks before Christmas, and she hasn't spoken a word to her father since Thanksgiving night. She isn't ready to face him, yet. She feels betrayed and foolish... embarrassed and irate… and it's all just too much to handle most days.

She's tired of crying.

She's tired of dodging phone calls and spending most of her free time alone.

She's tired of working two jobs and making excuses, and she's tired of feeling ashamed.

If she stands at her kitchen window, then leans to the left and squints really hard, she can see a Christmas tree lot on the corner. The buildings nearby are lit from top to bottom with electric, holiday cheer, and radios blast songs about snowmen and Santa Claus from dusk until dawn. Wreaths adorn every door within sight, smells of peppermint and evergreen waft down the halls, and it's all so over-the-top that she wants to laugh. If things had been different – if she _hadn't_ been in the parking garage that night, if she _hadn't_ been attacked, if she _hadn't_ taken those pills, or dropped out of school, or been humiliated by her father just for sport – then maybe she'd care. Maybe she would rush down to the corner lot, buy the biggest tree and the brightest lights, and decorate her apartment just for fun.

For _fun_ , see? Not pretense.

But things aren't different.

And she has no desire to celebrate anything this year.

* * *

Hot chocolate with extra marshmallows, and a pile of chocolate shavings on top: she's been thinking about it all day. Food still doesn't interest her, and she has the holiday spirit of a constipated Grinch… but hot chocolate is another matter entirely. It's her one and only indulgence, and she loves it. Sometimes twice a day.

It's Monday. And it's snowing. Her shoes are too tight, her coat is too thin, and her six-hour shift at the bookstore felt like at least twenty-four. So she's distracted, see? And she's so busy smiling at the barista and trying not to drop her change, that she doesn't see the man in the red scarf until he's standing right there, smiling _at her_ , and searching for something to say.

He's tall. He has dark hair and glasses, kind eyes and expensive shoes. He's young. He's exactly the type of guy she has always found attractive, and when he finally shakes off the jitters and introduces himself, her first instinct is to smile.

To _smile_.

Not to hide.

Which is practically a miracle.

"I'm Alec," he tells her. "Alec Foster. And I hope you don't think I'm crazy or anything… but I've seen you in here a few times before, and I promised myself that if I ever saw you again, I'd finally say hello. So here I am."

A year ago? Six months ago? Six weeks ago? Yes, 'crazy' would've been exactly what she thought. She would've felt self-conscious and awkward, and she would've focused on all the reasons _not_ to enjoy attention from a handsome stranger, rather than live in the moment. She would've been timid and guarded – and after a few minutes of bland conversation, she would've found a reason to leave.

But things are different, now. She's healing.

And she doesn't want to leave.

* * *

They talk for hours. He tells her all about his undergrad classes, his family, his career plans, his friends… while she listens intently, and smiles until her cheeks start to ache. And by early evening, when he suggests grabbing dinner at a little Italian place a few blocks over? She doesn't hesitate at all.

A million sparkling snowflakes blanket the entire city. They sky is clear and moonlit, and she can't remember the last time she had such a lovely time. He says something about the weather – something funny that makes her lean into him just a little bit more… and when their hands automatically lace together, it hits her that she should probably be somewhat afraid. Not of _him_ , and not of what he might do to her… but of what seems to be happening right in front of her eyes.

This is a date, now.

Obviously.

It morphed from shy hellos, into ' _I'm not ready for this to end, yet_ ," and she feels a bit off-balance. Alec Foster is a surprise. And for as much as she welcomes the chance to be happy again, she's trying to hold back quite a bit, too. Mostly because there's a very big difference between meeting a nice guy who makes her smile and laugh, and who tells funny stories over plates of pasta… and meeting someone who will accept all of her baggage without so much as batting an eye.

She just doesn't want to get ahead of herself, that's all. It's one day, one hot chocolate, and one dinner – nothing more. Chances are, she might never see him again.

* * *

She sees him four times in that first week: two dinners, one movie, and one memorable attempt at ice skating in the park. They laugh, hold hands, and grow closer. He doesn't push for details about her past, and he doesn't ask why she shies away from most physical contact, and he is perfectly respectful of the silent boundaries she sets. Which is yet another surprise.

He's gentle, kind, funny, patient, smart, attentive, sincere… etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. She's smitten. And it's wonderful.

By the middle of December, most of her doubts are gone.

By the week before Christmas, they start seeing each other every day.

She feels centered and happy, and so hopeful about her future that it's often hard to remind herself to slow down. To live in the moment. To pay attention to what _she_ wants, and what _she_ needs, rather than to what everyone else thinks is best.

 _Be careful, Gillian. Slow down, Gillian. Don't get in over your head, Gillian. Think of your future, Gillian._

Blah.

Blah.

Bah.

Her mother wants her to finish school, and her father wants a refund for his "wasted tuition money." Her extended family is too busy pretending that everything is perfect, and they don't call anymore. Her co-workers are just that: co-workers. Not friends. Which leaves her with a handful of people who want to control her decisions, without really knowing her at all.

And then there's Alec – who doesn't seem to care about picture-perfect circumstances, and who tells her that she has a beautiful laugh… beautiful eyes… that her smile could light up a room. Her entire life feels like a study in extremes, and the only thing she knows for sure is this: sooner or later, her happiness has to start taking precedence over everyone else's opinions. So why _not_ now?

It's December 22nd. She spends all afternoon preparing a fancy dinner, burns half of it, and spills red sauce down the front of her brand new dress. And yet, when he arrives – right on time, carrying a single red rose and trying not to notice that the kitchen is filled with smoke – it all just clicks, instantly. She isn't embarrassed, she isn't nervous, she isn't anything but perfectly content with the thought that they're both on the verge of something wonderful.

* * *

Christmas Eve dawns with fresh snowfall, and the first phone call comes before her feet hit the floor. Her apartment is freezing. She stifles a yawn, double checks the thermostat, and pads toward the kitchen for coffee and eggs. Make no mistake, she does not feel festive. She has no tree, no lights, no gifts, no decorations of any kind – and quite frankly? She's been dreading this day for almost a month.

The second call comes during breakfast, and the third comes soon after. She takes a shower… folds some laundry… ignores calls four through eight, and tells herself that she'll deal with the aftermath later. In January. When calmer heads prevail.

Doing this?

Listening to her heart?

She knows it's the right thing. It's her life, and her decision, and she has no intentions of spending the next thirty-six hours cooped up in her parents' house, with her parents' rules, watching one of them drink himself into a stupor, while the other makes passive-aggressive demands. Granted, there will be hell to pay for skipping Christmas… but she doesn't much care.

Call nine comes around noon – and this time, her mother leaves a message. " _I know you're there, Gilly – please pick up_ ," she says. " _Your father already apologized, and we've told everyone you're coming tonight, so just remember that, okay? They're expecting you. They're expecting tradition, and you're just being stubborn. Why let one stupid Thanksgiving fight ruin this holiday for all the rest of us?"_

The call ends, and anger floods through her system in an instant. She recoils. Her muscles grow tense, and her stomach drops down to the floor… oh, she is furious! She bolts for the phone, ready to pull the wires right out of the wall and smash the receiver into pieces – but before she gets halfway across the room, the damn thing rings again.

Once. Twice. Three times. It's absolutely incessant, and she's just about ready to scream.

Point one? Her father did not apologize. Point two? She doesn't care _who_ is expecting _what_ , and she _definitely_ doesn't care about any superficial traditions that require her to sacrifice her self-worth for the sake of a pretentious holiday dinner party. And point three? The phrase "ruin this holiday for all the rest of us" is – by far – the most passive-aggressive thing she's heard in ages. It's just awful.

By the sixth ring, she's cursing under her breath. By the seventh, she's cursing at top volume. And by the eighth? She finally answers.

Very, very loudly.

"If I hear another word about what everyone else needs, or about how I'm messing up my life," she shouts, "…then I'm done. No more calls. No more holidays. No more guilt. No more trying to tell me _what_ to do, or _when_ to do it – and for the love of God, mother, my name is not Gilly. It's Gillian. G-I-L-L-I-A-N. Are we clear on that, or do you need me to write it across my forehead in giant red letters?!"

And for whatever fallout she expects her tirade to cause, the only thing she hears is a chuckle. An almost imperceptible, masculine chuckle.

Mostly because the caller is Alec. Not her mother.

 _Shit, shit, shit._

She starts to explain. She tries to say something about holiday stress and not getting enough sleep, but he jumps in almost immediately, chuckles again, and says…

"No, we're clear. Which is good, because I'd hate to see you cover such a beautiful face with anything – especially giant red letters.

Trust her, she has no idea why he's calling now – on Christmas Eve, totally out of the blue – and she is so far beyond embarrassed that she can barely even think straight. Much less talk. Or apologize. Or try to haul the huge, proverbial foot out of her big, stupid mouth. The room suddenly feels ten degrees too warm, and she starts to fidget with the hem of her sweater. Embarrassment aside, though, she's flattered... because he's calling _now_.

On Christmas Eve.

Totally out of the blue.

"I thought you were going to spend the day with your family," she finally manages. Her gaze drifts to the window; to the brilliant white snow that covers everything within sight. Frozen trees stand at attention. The pace of the entire city seems to slow to a crawl, and she wonders how it's possible to miss him this much already.

"Come with me?" he asks. "I miss you, Gillian… and I'd love it if we could spend Christmas together."

It's _her_ life, _her_ future, _her_ happiness. And somehow, those words are exactly what she'd been hoping to hear.

* * *

It's an hour before the ball drops, and they're curled up on her sofa and watching the countdown on TV. A half-eaten pizza sits on the coffee table, an oversized blanket covers their laps, and the phone – purposely unplugged and stashed away in a drawer, this time – is the furthest thing from her mind. She isn't worried about much of anything tonight.

They talk.

They laugh.

They hold hands.

He tells her that she's beautiful; that he's never been happier, and that her smile could light up a room. And when the moment is right, she kisses him… which takes them both by surprise.

He pulls back ever-so slowly to study her face, and his palm lingers against the side of her neck. It just rests there, you know? With no pressure, no expectations, no assumptions, and no rush. It's the most vulnerable she's allowed herself to be with anyone in over a year, and yet she feels completely safe. Alec Foster will not hurt her. His eyes are kind, his touch is gentle, and she's falling more in love with him every day.

* * *

She bares her soul in January, telling him everything about her past and marveling at the depth of his compassion. He listens patiently, strokes her hair, and holds her as she cries. He tells her how proud he is to have her in his life, and that he will never let anyone hurt her again.

He dries her tears… kisses her hand… pulls her close, and promises to support her in all things. And a beat later – as she wipes smeared mascara from beneath her eyes and apologizes for being such a mess – he tells her that he loves her.

And it feels like coming home.

* * *

"I think I'm ready to go back," she says – just as casually as if she's discussing the weather. She's perfectly calm. She sits proudly and doesn't fidget, and she feels patience fill the gap where anxiety once lived.

She sleeps normally these days – without nightlights, and without first checking to see if any monsters lurk beneath her bed. She's inching her way towards a healthy weight, rebuilding friendships, and finding her voice. And on the rare occasions when her demons _do_ beckon from the shadows, and tempt her to give in to their pull? She holds her ground. She stands strong, faces her fear, and reminds herself that the future isn't written in stone.

 _I think I'm ready to go back._

Trust her, those seven words are a victory all by themselves.

They've discussed it many times before, you know? Always with open-ended, hypothetical phrases that made it seem like a faraway goal. They've talked about vulnerability; about acceptance and forgiveness, and living life on her own terms. They've talked about dreams. About love and happiness… about self-doubt and taking risks. They've done the work, and they've built the foundation, and it feels good to come so far with such unwavering support. So she's quite sure that Dr. Collins' genuine surprise doesn't come from _what_ is being said, but rather from how calmly she is saying it.

Without hypotheticals.

Without stress.

Without fear.

"I _know_ you're ready, Gillian," Dr. Collins counters. "And I'm so happy for you."

Melissa's smile is warm, and her eyes are filled with genuine emotion. With pride. With respect. With all the things she wants to see from the people in her life, but has rarely been able to find. It's… bittersweet. It simultaneously reminds her of how far she's already come, while highlighting everything she lost along the way.

Her family? Yes.

Her innocence? Yes.

Her friends? Some of them, yes.

She sees the world through entirely new eyes, these days. She appreciates the small things, and finds happiness in places she wouldn't have looked before. She laughs louder, feels stronger, and understands that perfection is overrated – that pain doesn't have to be permanent, and unconditional love can sometimes heal the deepest wounds.

She doesn't feel like 'damaged goods,' anymore, and she's grateful.

Setting foot on campus again will be hard, but she's ready to face whatever her future holds.

* * *

To be continued...

 **A/N** : Cal will likely make his first appearance in the next chapter.


End file.
